Shop Talk Page 17

  They both watched as Marvin got in his car and prepared to back into the street.

  “I’ve got him now,” Andromeda said. “Anything?”

  Mona shook her head. “Good luck.” She cranked her car. “I’ve got an appointment at three. I have to stop by the store for some hamburger meat.”

  Andromeda lifted one eyebrow behind the glasses. Sometimes it was better not to ask. She went back and straddled her hog, pulling her helmet on before she fell in behind the pale blue Taurus that Marvin Lovelace drove toward Highway 90.

  As the hog ate the miles, the wind whipped against her face, giving her a sense of freedom that was a drug. Straddling the Harley, she could forget the black gloom that emanated from her mother and hung over her life. Ahead of her, Marvin tooled along the highway, careful to stay just within the speed limit. The scents of the beach came at her. Water, tide, fish, a burger joint, the tang of gumbo, and, pungently, asphalt as she passed a road crew repairing potholes. The bike gave her a sample of the world around her while speeding her through it.

  Marvin headed north, away from the coast. Andromeda was mildly intrigued. Most joggers opted for the beach, where they could strut. But Marvin was an old fart. The competition from the younger studs would surely be depressing. It was a revealing fact about his character.

  At the 1-10 junction, he went west. Andromeda had a bad moment as she realized he might head to New Orleans. She’d given her mother a shot of codeine cough syrup laced with paregoric. It would be good for only four or five hours, and then Natalie was going to wake up in an awful mood–hung over and constipated. At the turn to Saucier, she expelled a sigh of relief as she followed Marvin. She had no idea where he was going, but at least it wasn’t New Orleans.

  He took several twisting turns on roads that became narrower and less paved, and Andromeda thought several times she’d lost him. She was forced to drop back to avoid detection, yet she was close enough to see him stop at a long drive with a massive gate. His thin arm reached out of the car and punched at a keypad. The iron gate slid open, and Marvin drove the Taurus through. Even as she watched, the gate slid back into place, shutting her out.

  “Damn, damn and double damn.” She rested her foot on the ground to balance the bike, waited several minutes, then parked her bike on the side of the road in a clump of weeds and walked to the gate.

  There was no indication what lay beyond the gate. Marvin was probably a snowbird, and this was most likely a private club. She fingered the key pad, lightly, not depressing any of the buttons. She knew enough about security to know that some sophisticated systems would signal an alert if an improper code was keyed in. She went up to the gate. There was no sign of a guard, or of surveillance cameras, she thought belatedly, and with relief. The perimeter of the compound was fenced with what had to be the stoutest electric fence she’d ever seen. The strands were eight feet high and about six inches apart, heavy gauge wire. She counted sixteen strands. A squirrel would have a hard time getting in or out.

  The wrought iron gate itself was interesting. What had at first appeared to be a woodland scene, was not at all. The center piece of the gate was the profile of a falcon-like bird gripping the earth in huge talons. In its beak, the bird held a saber and a gun. But the most interesting thing was the bird’s eye. It was split by an S-shaped line that divided it perfectly in two equal halves of dark and light. Andromeda stared at the eye, a chill touching her even as her finger traced the garland of laurel leaves that encircled the figure.

  She examined the entire gate. Strangely enough, as close as the electric wires were, the sliding gate tines held just enough space for her to slip through. Wisdom whispered in her ear, urging her to remain outside the strange compound. But the murmur of caution was obliterated by the more pleasurable sense of freedom. She had more than four hours left. Plenty of time to duck in the gate, have a look-see, and get back to her bike. She patted the pocket of her shirt. Her camera. Document, document, document. The role of the writer. Observe, document, draw conclusions. This was an opportunity she couldn’t resist.

  Turning sideways, she wedged herself through the gate. On the other side were towering pine forests and wildflowers. Gravel scrunched beneath her hiking boots as she hurried down the pitted road that looked like a million dirt trails leading to some good-ole-boy’s hunting lodge. Only the high-tech gate spoke of the possibility of something else. That and her intuition. She felt it deep in her brain. Here was the seed of her screenplay.

  She could visualize the opening shot, angling up into the trees, then back down to the narrow path, framed by the thick pines. The shot would be sinister, but there would be no clear evidence why. Here was the place she could introduce the science fiction element that would sever her story from Jazz’s thriller plot. Here in the pines, where aliens could land without human detection, was the perfect location. Andromeda began to trot, eager to see what waited around the bend in the road.

  To her complete surprise, the trees gave way abruptly to a long pasture that extended to the horizon. The ground was flat, spreading to the edge of the field, where it curved up and disappeared into blue sky. Just on the rim of the horizon, a tall, thin man was jogging. Marvin. He’d actually come all the way out to Saucier to jog. It took her a moment to realize that the slight blurring of Marvin was caused by another line of electrical fence. He was obviously on the far side of it, jogging like a demon. His knees moved up and down like pistons, and Andromeda felt a moment of admiration for his self-discipline. The old codger was in terrific shape.

  Remembering her camera, she pulled it out and snapped a few shots. Small, compact, the latest in photographic technology, Andromeda loved the camera. She had just raised it once more when she felt a warm gust of breath at the base of her neck.

  Another breath of expelled air smote her neck, combined with a spray of moisture. Camera still held at her eye, Andromeda spun around and began madly clicking. What appeared in the viewfinder was a huge black nose, split down the center and dripping moisture, and a huge pink tongue. The mountain of black fur behind the nose was enormous. Very slowly, Andromeda lowered the camera and stood face to face with a buffalo. It was the biggest land mammal she’d ever seen.

  Andromeda took two steps back. The buffalo took two steps forward, its pink tongue flicking out to lick its wet nose. The head was massive, broader than Andromeda’s hips, and far hairier. Andromeda removed her Raybans for the first time in eight years and accepted that she’d never been so scared before. No wonder the electric fence had been so forcefully strung. Buffalo. A faint rustling among the pines clued her to the fact that the big bull, and indeed it was a bull, was not alone.

  “Shit.” Andromeda clicked off a few more photos, squinting at the bright sunlight. She slid the Raybans back on. “Shit,” she said again as two more big animals stepped out of the woods. To her surprise they were plain, ordinary cows, polled herefords. But what were those wooly creatures at their sides? Andromeda took off her glasses one more time as she stared at the baby calves. They were not cows. And they were not buffaloes.

  “Beefalos.” She whispered the words. A bastardization of cow and buffalo. So, someone in Saucier was cross-breeding animals.

  Andromeda lifted the camera and clicked off the rest of the roll. This was too good to be true. Beefalo. Something that would never have occurred to her in a million years–cross breeding. An excellent science fiction theme. Perfection. But what if the breeding program involved humans and aliens? Right here in Mississippi. And whole colonies of rejects could have been turned loose to forage in the backwoods. “Yes!” She cried out the word before she could stop herself. “A combination of The X-Files and Deliverance. Yes, oh yes!” She twirled around, stopping abruptly when she caught sight of the buffalo, who was no longer licking his wet nose in a friendly fashion. He lowered his head, snorted and looked at her through shaggy brown fur.

  “It’s okay,” Andromeda said, hoping a buffalo would respond to a voice of reason. “I’m not goin
g to hurt you.”

  The buffalo snorted again and pawed the ground.

  “Shit.” Andromeda tucked the camera in her pocket so that her hands were free. The horns of the buffalo were short and curved, deadly. The massive forehead could crush a person.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” Andromeda said. She glanced to the horizon where Marvin Lovelace was long gone. Another fact became clear to her–he’d been jogging on the other side of the electrical fence for a reason. He knew about the buffalo.

  Never turning her back, Andromeda angled toward the woods. It was at least a half mile to the gate, but there were trees she might have a prayer of climbing. The other direction led only to the open field and certain death.

  She felt her heart slow as she gained the woods and the buffalo had not moved any closer to her. He stood, head lowered, glaring. She had begun to believe she was going to make it when a young calf sprang out of the woods with a startled cry. The terrified animal bolted past her, racing as if the devil had hold of its tail. Andromeda gave a cry of pure terror. The ground beneath her feet was pounding and rumbling. It took less than two seconds for her to realize the jolting came from the weight of the buffalo, which had begun to charge.

  Darting among the trees, Andromeda ran for her life. The pines had obviously been carefully managed as a crop. All lower limbs had been trimmed. The trees stretched tall to the sky, without a limb for her to grab and swing up. The few hardwoods were scrub oaks, too narrow to withstand an attack by an enraged buffalo. Feet slipping occasionally in the deep pine straw, Andromeda ran for the gate, praying her sense of direction would not fail her.

  Behind her the buffalo came, snorting and sliding in the straw worse than she was. She heard it smack into a tree and bellow with rage. Far in the distance was the cry of a man, then another. It could be help or additional danger, but Andromeda had no intention of waiting around to find out. She burst through a thicket of dogwoods and saw the gate up ahead. The buffalo, stymied by the close growing trees, was still coming. With her last spurt of energy, Andromeda launched herself at the gate and prayed that she could turn sideways in midair. She struck the metal with a sickening thud and then shimmied through, falling out on the other side and scrabbling to her knees. Rocks gouged her flesh, but she crawled over to the ditch and dove headlong into the tall black-eyed susans and weeds that crowded the mushy, weed-choked gully. She cowered lower at the loud whang of the buffalo ramming the gate.

  Before she could catch her breath, there was the sound of a gunshot. Then another. The earth shook with the thunder of pounding hooves. Peeking over the weeds, she saw the buffalo shake his head at the gate and then trot back into the woods. The loud roar of an engine preceded the appearance of a Land Rover at the gate.

  “Damn that Billy Buffalo!” A tall, blond man battered himself against the stubborn door of the vehicle. When it flew open, he almost toppled to the ground. His black beret fell into the dirt. He picked it up and dusted it on his camouflage pants. Cursing, he walked to the gate and rattled it. “I wonder what he was chasing?” He hefted a rifle in muscular arms and sighted up and down the road. “I’m ready for a little action.”

  “Maybe we should check it out.” The other man was shorter, his thick blond hair neatly cropped. His dark green uniform, complete with glinting medals on his left pocket, was crisply pressed. He pushed the driver’s door open with ease and stepped to the ground with compact grace. In one hand he held a weapon that resembled an Uzi, in the other was a cigar. “Check the ditches, look for tracks.”

  The first man hesitated. “I don’t know. That Billy. It’s breeding season, and I think he just gets irrational. Marvin was jogging around here and didn’t see anything.”

  “If anything gets by us, Dr. Custer will not be pleased.” The man clamped his teeth on the cigar.

  “If we over-react, Dr. Custer will be just as unhappy. Even the idea of a trespasser sends him into a frenzy, and I don’t have to remind you how unpleasant one of his moods can be.” The tall one rattled the gate again. “Nobody’s been up here. Let’s check Billy and make sure he wasn’t hurt.”

  “Right.”

  The men got back in the truck and slowly drove away.

  Andromeda crawled down the ditch, trying hard not to think about the leeches and snakes that undoubtedly lived in the mucky dampness. When she reached the hard rubber tire of her bike, she felt an immense relief. Her camera was still in her pocket. From the saddle bag on her bike she drew out a pad and pencil and began to sketch the area where the compound was located.

  The strange creatures that were being bred on the compound intrigued her. She’d heard, long ago, of the attempt to cross cattle and buffalo for a new, cheap meat. But the product had not sold well. Americans, after slaughtering the buffalo and the Indians, did not care to dine on that icon of the American west, not even when crossed with the more acceptably edible Angus. As crossbreeds, they were sterile. Destined never to be anything except freaks.

  Pushing hard, she maneuvered the bike out of the muddy ditch and into the road. Afraid to crank it, she pushed it back the way she’d come. In the shade of a big oak and the safety of a white-blossomed blackberry thicket, she parked and waited for Marvin.

  Nature was all around her, trying to lull her into drowsiness, but Andromeda resisted. She tried to screen out the droning buzz, the shrill chirp. Buzz, chirp. Buzz, chirp. Chirp, chirp, buzz, a maddening symphony of bird and bee. She sat up abruptly. It was all so very clear. Robert Beaudreaux was a geneticist, an expert on DNA. The beefalo were crossbreeds. The security at the beefalo ranch was a little extreme, even for valuable cows. Military uniforms. The confiscation of Horn Island by the military during the war. Was it possible that Robert had not been abducted at all, but had been transferred into some type of military stronghold in the heart of Saucier?

  The sound of a car approaching cut off all further thoughts. Years of practice in jumping up to tend to her mother had Andromeda helmeted, cranked and ready in seconds. Marvin cruised by, and she let him get around a curve before she headed the Harley after him.

  He returned to his apartment, where Lucille was waiting to assume her watch. Andromeda wasted no time. Natalie’s sleep would soon be over. She waved goodbye and headed for the library.

  Jazz was just locking the front door as she walked the hog up the steps and stopped, grinning.

  Jazz’s frown melted. She thrust her chin out as far as her hipbones. “You found something about Marvin, didn’t you?”

  Andromeda’s nod was quick, intense. “What exactly went on at Horn Island during World War II?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lucille kicked the Krystal bag and sent it whoofing to the passenger side of the Camaro. Five little empty burger containers, still smelling of steamed meat, onions, and pickles, spilled across the floorboard. She looked up at the apartment window. “Damn you, Marvin. And damn Jazz for thinking up this idiotic scheme.” Her raw knees throbbed and her back ached from sitting motionless in the car for four hours. One more hour. Jazz was due to relieve her at ten. Marvin had left his den only long enough to go to the bagel shop and pick up two white sacks of food. For a thin man, he was a big eater.

  She was so deep in her dark thoughts that she almost missed the opening of the apartment door. The old man, cane in hand, slid into the darkness like a shadow. He was dressed in what appeared to be a black cat-suit. “Great, he thinks he’s Houdini.” Lucille reached for the car keys but her fingers were greasy from the fries. She managed to get the car cranked and was ready when he backed his Taurus out of the drive and headed west.

  Careful to stay four car-lengths behind him, Lucille recognized the distant outline of the Marina Apartments on the horizon and felt a wave of longing for her tiny little apartment and her computer. The complex was three stories high and built from fake shake-cedar shingles in a French provincial style. It was considered by almost everyone on the coast to be an eyesore. But Lucille had lived there for five years. She’d grown co
mfortable in the cramped space, accustomed to the noises of the other tenants as they ran their showers, flushed their toilets, and argued. So much of her time at home was spent at the computer that she’d gotten to where she didn’t notice her surroundings, except for her beloved fuzzy badger slippers.

  Marvin took a right and drove past the Marina Apartments, cutting north. The temptation to give up the chase and dart home for an hour of writing was almost irresistible. But there would be no way to explain to Mona how she’d lost a septuagenarian. Lucille knew Mona was a dangerous woman.

  Marvin cruised several blocks and suddenly slowed. Lucille was forced to swerve into a driveway or ram him in the butt. The abrupt turn required all of her driving ability, and when she looked up, she was curious to see that Marvin had pulled along the side of the sleepy street and was simply sitting in his car, motor dead, lights out.

  Killing her engine, Lucille rolled down her window. The fishy smell of the bayou wafted in to her, a familiar smell that was both comforting and filled with the life cycle of decay. In the quiet she could hear the whisper of the slight April breeze in the marsh grass.

  Though it was some distance away, the third floor of a large complex was visible above the trees. The odor of the bayou teased Lucille’s creative side and the most recent problem that stumped her. Slade had lost his desire to write poetry. He never picked up a pen. His hands were always full of Angelita’s flesh. Somehow, he’d forgotten all about his quest to find a woman worthy of him. He’d settled for one with a talent for black lace and muscle contractions.

  Lucille unhooked her seat belt and gave a sigh of relief. More than anything she needed a Coke. The real thing. Something to make her burp. The Krystal burgers had worked down an inch or so, but they were like cement. Bo was always telling her to chew her food better. He chewed each mouthful thirty-six times, something he’d learned in a family planning class at Wiggins High. Using the butt of her hand, she pounded on her chest. A little fizz would go a long way to dislodging the blockage. Without warning little shooting jolts of fire trailed down her left arm. The words HEART ATTACK blared behind her eyelids, and she sat up straight.